


The Fruit of Knowledge

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos and d'Artagnan pose as lovers in order to infiltrate an exclusive all-male salon, and get a great deal more than they bargained for in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fruit of Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> In which I return to [Pretend Couple](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pretend_Couple).
> 
> Thank you to [mellyflori](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori) and [queenaramis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofbearisland/pseuds/queenaramis) for their help, encouragement and support.
> 
> There's plenty of references to antiquity in this one, and while I've tried my best, I'm neither a historian nor a classicist. If I've made any particularly egregious errors please feel free to point them out in the comments and I'll try and fix them accordingly.
> 
>  **Content notes:** Athos and d'Artagnan don't fully appreciate the situation they get into in this fic, and while they do try and make sure that what they get up to is as consensual as possible, the situation dictates that there's a certain amount of pressure to perform sexually in order to maintain their cover.

Huddled in the hooded cloak that serves as protection from both the pouring rain and any watching eyes, d’Artagnan walks quickly, making sure he stays cloaked in the shadows of the buildings beside him just in case – while dusk is setting in fast, possible cover’s minimal on this grand, wide street, and he doesn’t wish to be observed looking as though anything here holds his interest.

He deliberately passes by the gate of the grand-looking town house on the far side of the street and the young man stopped in front of it, ducking into a gap between two buildings and turning to look back in the direction he came, poking his head out just in time to see his mark gaining entrance to the house, and the gate being firmly bolted behind him. A glance at Porthos, fifty paces behind him to the east and talking with a newly-arrived Aramis in the manner of acquaintances who have met by chance in the street and simply must catch up right there, is enough to confirm he’s seen it too.

D’Artagnan watches and waits for their mark to cross the courtyard and disappear inside the front door, then counts to a hundred for good measure; and he’s just about to walk over to his comrades when a carriage comes rumbling along the street. It pulls up outside the gate and only has to wait a few seconds before it’s opened, continuing into the courtyard and discharging its occupants – it can only be a couple of men from the size of the carriage, though his view’s blocked and he can’t hear anything over the sound of the continual downpour – before turning off just out of sight.

This pattern repeats itself twice more within a count of ten minutes; and just as the third carriage makes its way through the gates d’Artagnan sees Athos, appeared from somewhere to the west of him and walking over.

“Come. We’ve seen all we need to,” he says when he reaches d’Artagnan, his hand clapping him briefly on the shoulder.

D’Artagnan falls obediently into step, but turns his head sharply to look at Athos. “What, we’re just leaving?”

There’s clearly no easy way to see inside the house, its only apparent entrance being through that locked gate, the walls blank and high on either side, but there’s still every chance their mark might walk out again any second.

Athos just looks at him steadily for a moment before his eyes return to the road ahead, as he warns, “Watch your step.”

He’s right, of course – even the best roads are unpredictable underfoot, and they all still remember Renard tripping while out on patrol and falling flat on his face in a pile of horse shit three weeks past – but Athos’ words feel more like a brush-off than anything else, and d’Artagnan has learned to recognise when Athos is unwilling to share his thoughts.

It’s only when they reach the others that he steps close and says in a low voice, “That is the residence of the Duke of Aumale.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t miss the significant looks that pass between them.

“We do nothing until we’ve talked to Tréville,” Athos instructs, in the same flat tone. “One of you stay here and watch the house, on the off chance that our man does leave before midnight, although I very much doubt it. The other two, with me.”

Porthos produces a silver piece from the depths of his cloak, grinning suddenly at Aramis. “Draw for it?” he asks, before putting both hands behind his back.

Aramis rolls his eyes, but waits until Porthos’ gloved hands are held out in front of him before calling, “Right.”

Porthos turns his right hand palm up and uncurls his fingers to reveal the coin. “See you boys later, then,” he says, flashing them all a grin and tipping the sopping brim of his hat before making for the alleyway where d’Artagnan himself was concealed until moments ago.

Athos, meanwhile, sets off in the direction of the garrison without giving either Aramis or d’Artagnan a second glance; and d’Artagnan hurries to fall into step beside him, biting his tongue to stop himself asking again what’s going on. He knows by now that nothing comes from pressing Athos for information he’s clearly not ready to divulge, and he assumes that all will be explained by Tréville in any case – though the curious turn of events continues to needle at him.

This investigation had looked so simple when it started out. A series of unflattering political cartoons satirising the excesses of the Catholic Church that had been appearing in the intellectuals’ favourite cafés during the last few weeks, which the Cardinal wanted dealt with; and which they’d all expected to be the handiwork of either disgruntled students or Huguenot sympathisers. The involvement of a duke – if the Duke truly is involved – is another beast entirely, and it makes sense that they should tread carefully.

But once the three of them find themselves standing before Tréville a quarter-hour later, as Athos briefly reports the day’s events, from staking out several of the cafés in question to finding the pamphlet-deliverer and tracking him to his destination, d’Artagnan doesn’t miss the way the atmosphere in the room becomes distinctly strained the moment Athos says the Duke’s name.

He would have expected either surprise or annoyance on Tréville’s part, depending on whether the Duke’s potential involvement was surprising to him; but he didn’t expect things to be quite so _awkward,_ as if nobody really knows what to say – or rather as if they know all too well, but would give anything not to have to say it.

Athos has barely looked at Tréville since they walked in the room.

Not, of course, that d’Artagnan continually finds himself looking at Athos, trying to gauge his emotions and understand what he’s thinking, and how d’Artagnan can best impress him. He simply wants to understand what’s at play here, is all.

He makes himself look at Aramis instead – and even his face is smoothly blank, as he looks over Tréville’s shoulder in the manner of one who’s enduring a thorough telling-off and is just waiting until it’s over, twisting his hat in his hands as he adds, “Three carriages arrived within a quarter-hour of each other, just after our man. We believe the Duke is – holding a salon.”

“Of course he is,” Tréville says – more to himself than to them, d’Artagnan decides, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face in a familiar gesture of weariness before looking back at Athos. “Do you believe he’s involved?”

“While it is possible,” Athos replies slowly, meeting Tréville’s eyes this time as he picks his words with care, “I don’t think it’s likely, no. The Duke has never been known for challenging the existing social order.” His pause is meaningful before he adds, “Mostly.”

D’Artagnan decides he’s thoroughly fed up of being the only one to whom nobody’s bothered to explain what’s going on here, though the expectation of how disappointed Athos would be if he demanded an explanation is still enough to hold his tongue.

But when all Tréville says is, “Alright. Then you’ll just have to continue to watch the house,” d’Artagnan decides he’ll have to risk it, because everyone else in the room has so far completely failed to come up with what seems to him to be the obvious solution.

So he takes a breath and asks, “If this is a salon, why don’t we just go along? Then either we find out what’s going on, or we can rule the Duke out properly.”

And when Athos flashes him a look that says _stop talking_ , he glares defiantly back, trying to silently transmit that if for some reason Athos actively hadn’t wanted him to come to this conclusion then he should have damn well said so beforehand.

He looks to Aramis for support, and is even more confused when Aramis says nothing.

“Look, I haven’t got time for this,” Tréville says, getting up and reaching for his hat and cloak – and d’Artagnan only just manages to suppress a noise of surprise, this is a _Duke_ and _potential sedition_ they’re talking about! “Athos, I leave it with you. Come back when you know for certain whether or not the Duke’s involved.”

He’s barely finished speaking before he opens the door to the sound of the howling wind outside, stepping through and pulling it closed behind him with a bang.

For a long moment d’Artagnan stares after his captain, unable to believe what’s just happened; then he rounds on Aramis (because he still doesn’t quite dare to round on Athos) and demands, “Is someone going to explain to me what’s going on here?”

In response, Aramis raises his eyebrows at Athos – and d’Artagnan is _not_ going to turn around and look at him – then takes his time unbuttoning his cloak and hanging it from a hook on the wall before stepping forward to lean against the front of Tréville’s desk.

Once he’s got sufficiently comfortable, he says without preamble, “The Duke of Aumale is somewhat infamous for his appreciation of the company of other men.”

It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in – but sink in it does.

“Oh,” d’Artagnan replies eloquently, painfully aware of Athos still standing statue-still to his left. He’s aware that he and Athos have never spoken about anything like this before, and he wants to react the right way – not disapproving, but not too _interested_ either – and ends up not daring to say anything further.

Luckily for him, Aramis continues, “And it’s very likely that this salon is a meeting place for the similarly-inclined. After all, whoever heard of a salon without a _salonnière_?”

“Well… I suppose it explains why they’re not just meeting in a café?”

D’Artagnan actually thinks it’s more likely to be because of the potentially seditious nature of what they’re discussing than the lack of women, but Aramis smiles with the satisfaction of one who’s successfully imparted his own wisdom. “Exactly.”

“But if the Duke’s so infamous, why hasn’t he been arrested?”

Unexpectedly, it’s Athos who replies:

“Because for the nobility, there are different rules.” He walks over to lean against the wall of Tréville’s office, bracing one foot flat against the plaster. “The Duke’s proclivities alone are not sufficient cause for the King to offend the entire family. His sister in particular has a great deal of sway at court. Plus, His Majesty has no wish to set a precedent.”

“Fine, but we still need to know what they’re saying in there,” d’Artagnan insists, deliberately ignoring his own unease. He refuses to let personal feelings cloud his judgement, and it seems clear to him at least that the salon may well be a front for political agitation. “If the Duke is involved.”

Immediately, Athos snaps, “Out of the question.”

D’Artagnan does his best to try and ignore how much it stings.

“Aramis?” he asks instead, turning away from Athos, and refusing to wince when his own voice comes out sounding a lot closer to pleading than he’d like. “ _You’re_ with me, right?”

He’s hoping for a yes and steeling himself for a no; so it surprises him when Aramis says neither of those things, just replying gently, “It couldn’t be me. It would have to be you and Athos.”

In the silence that follows d’Artagnan refuses to look back at Athos, though between the tension in the room and the way Aramis looks over his shoulder and shrugs not-quite-apologetically, he can imagine the force of his glare without needing to see it.

“Look, we need to do this,” d’Artagnan pushes, forcing himself to concentrate on the issue at hand. “We need to determine whether the Duke is involved, and if the man we followed is working on his orders. And the only way I can see to do that is to be in the same room as him. Now what’s better, breaking into his house or simply procuring ourselves an invitation to his salon, going along and getting a sense of the conversation, and whether we need to investigate him further?”

“We don’t _know_ what would happen,” Athos counters, voice clipped and cold as he enunciates each word. “That’s the _point_. Perhaps it is just that. Conversation. Perhaps not.”

_Perhaps not?_

D’Artagnan’s opened his mouth to ask what else would be the purpose of a salon when Aramis’ words come back to him just in time: _a meeting place for the similarly-inclined._

_We don’t know what would happen._

Is Athos concerned about unwanted advances? And for d’Artagnan’s sake, or his own?

“I can handle myself,” he insists, though he can’t help thinking his efforts are futile. Athos rarely backs down when his mind’s made up, and d’Artagnan is so thoroughly convinced that Aramis is siding with Athos that he’s surprised when he delicately clears his throat.

“Athos. It’s just a social call, not a full-scale infiltration,” Aramis points out. “If things get out of hand then you just make your excuses and leave, and we’ll be no worse off for having tried.”

Athos looks sharply at Aramis, who nods, his eyes as intently focused as if he’d actually said _trust me_ ; and there are a few moments of tension so thick that d’Artagnan half-thinks he can taste it on the air before Athos finally replies, “Then you prepare him. I’ll make arrangements,” pushing himself off from the wall and striding from the room without looking at d’Artagnan once.

With Athos gone, d’Artagnan sinks down against Tréville’s desk next to Aramis, thoughts in a whirl. It looks like they’re really doing this, then; but it’s clearly against Athos’ wishes, and d’Artagnan’s beginning to wonder if he’s completely misjudged his comrade’s feelings.

If it was actually disgust Athos was concealing behind his carefully blank expression, and not worry at all.

“You’re doing the right thing, you know,” Aramis says, reaching out to give d’Artagnan’s arm a reassuring pat, which means that his feelings must be all too plain on his face. “Athos just doesn’t want to put you in a difficult position.”

“I can handle myself,” he repeats, frustration starting to set in. He’s not as innocent as they might think, and he certainly won’t go in there without a stiletto in his boot. “Is that what he meant by ‘preparing’ me? Because I know what kind of men we’re talking about, I’m not _that_ naïve.”

Aramis grins. “Yes, but did you have a classical education?”

D’Artagnan frowns, thrown by the apparent non-sequitur. “No?”

“Then you have a lot of things yet to learn before you can turn up at that kind of gathering and seem like you halfway belong there.”

While d’Artagnan feels loath to pass up the opportunity, both given that this was his idea in the first place and for reasons he doesn’t want to examine right now, he forces himself to say, “It sounds like you’d be a lot better suited for this than I would.”

Aramis’ smile this time is complicated, and a little wistful, d’Artagnan decides. “Perhaps, but the point is moot. It has to be you and Athos, Athos because a Comte stands a chance of gaining admission to a Duke’s private salon where a common man does not… and you, because they will expect the man who accompanies him to be much younger than me. The social codes of antiquity were different to our own, but were no less stringent,” he explains, at d’Artagnan’s confused frown, “and an older man could take a younger man of lower status, a protégé, to his bed, but not another man of the same age and status. It mattered who was the _lover,_ and the _beloved._ ”

They are to pose as each other’s companions, then; and no doubt Athos had already realised this.

D’Artagnan can’t help the horrible thought that perhaps _this_ is why Athos won’t look at him.

“It sounds… complicated,” he manages, when he realises he still needs to say something. “Don’t tell me you learnt all of this at the seminary.”

That makes Aramis laugh. “Oh, definitely not. The classical elements of my education very much skipped over these aspects of history. But of course, reading Latin enables you to make your own discoveries. Leaving me in charge of your crash course in the culture of the ancients.”

Which, as d’Artagnan discovers over the days that follow, would definitely be enough to make him think he’s bitten off more than he can chew here if it weren’t for Aramis’ energy and enthusiasm, and the amount of effort he’s willing to put into telling d’Artagnan everything he needs to know, in exhaustive and occasionally hair-raising detail.

“Don’t worry,” Aramis says brightly the first morning, when they establish that d’Artagnan’s Latin is barely enough to follow a sermon, let alone read and interpret entire passages of Ovid on his own. “Nobody will expect you to be an expert in antiquity. Just give your real name and tell the truth about your background, and everyone will assume Athos is tutoring you because he likes you.”

“Why isn’t he?” d’Artagnan asks before he can stop himself.

He’s barely seen Athos since he walked out of Tréville’s office, leaving a ring of rainwater on the floor and the echoes of his mood behind; and on the few occasions he has seen him Athos has looked distinctly worse for wear, and has neatly or not-so-neatly avoided any attempts at conversation beyond the bare minimum.

He’s barely looked at d’Artagnan at all; and d’Artagnan’s only been partially successful in pretending it doesn’t hurt.

He can tell that Aramis has noticed too by the way his habitually sunny expression flickers, though when he replies his voice is as cheerful as usual.

“Athos has his own preparations to make. He can’t just approach the Duke cold – etiquette dictates that he identify another member of his salon and charm them sufficiently to secure an invitation, and hopefully for the end of the week. Besides,” Aramis grins suddenly, “I think he doesn’t want me to feel left out.”

So with Tréville suddenly unconcerned about how his four best soldiers spend their time (and even d’Artagnan understands the need to maintain plausible deniability), d’Artagnan spends his days with Aramis, being tutored in the literature, culture, philosophy and social structures of the ancient world, with emphasis placed on the relationships between young men and the men who mentored them both socially and intimately; meanwhile Athos is barely present and Porthos comes and goes, apparently splitting his time between helping Athos with his own mysterious preparations, keeping an eye on the Duke’s house and sitting in the corner of Aramis’ room, looking mostly amused at Aramis’ sometimes-lurid descriptions of Greek and Roman decadence.

When Aramis leaves them briefly alone on the afternoon of the third day, it occurs to d’Artagnan that Porthos hasn’t said much of anything since this whole thing started; and he finds himself asking, “So what do you think of it all?”

Porthos puts his head to one side and frowns for a moment, before deciding, “Seems like a whole lot of faff to me. If they wanted to get off with each other, they should have just done it.”

D’Artagnan’s saved from having to reply by Aramis’ return; but Porthos’ words stay with him, turning over and over in his mind as he tosses and turns that night, unable to sleep.

It’s an important mission, he reasons, and he needs to be convincing, and successful. That must be what’s keeping him so on edge. It’s nothing to do with Athos at all.

And even if Athos _is_ angry, it’s surely not personal. He trusts Athos understands the necessity of attending the salon themselves, however distasteful he may find such company.

Alright, d’Artagnan can admit to himself that this is actually about Athos, a little bit. About not wanting to let him down, not when he’s the person d’Artagnan admires among all others, even more so than the Captain.

He looks up to Athos, both as a soldier and as a man. He’s honourable, dignified, a masterful swordsman; he’s handsome (not that that means anything, d’Artagnan adds hastily), clever, brilliant company when he’s not drinking himself unconscious. Someone worthy of emulating, and d’Artagnan’s proud to call him his mentor.

Of course, he’s instantly reminded of Aramis explaining to him exactly what _mentorship_ meant to the Greeks, and what it will mean to the men of the Duke’s salon.

He ignores the sudden strange feeling in his stomach and turns onto his side, his cheek searching for a cool place on his pillow.

The next thing he knows it’s full light, there’s a pounding at his door and the memory of something important that’s just been said, the image of Athos’ eyes and a hand heavy on his shoulder, though the moment he reaches for the dream it slips from his grasp, and meanwhile the pounding is becoming insistent.

Waking up in the few seconds it takes to scramble out of bed and cross the floor in shirt and braies, he certainly isn’t expecting to find Athos on the other side of his room door, bringing a blast of chilly dawn air with him.

“Get dressed. I’m taking you to a tailor.”

“A tailor?” d’Artagnan repeats blearily, wondering what he’s managed to miss.

“You’ll need to look the part,” Athos reminds him, “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

D’Artagnan opens his mouth to agree – but Athos has already gone, walking off before d’Artagnan’s had a chance to get the words out. Almost as if Athos can’t bear to be in his presence for any longer than is strictly necessary.

It’s starting to make him realise just how little he’s understood.

When he first became a Musketeer, d’Artagnan remembers being surprised to learn that among soldiers at least, the general attitude to the notion of men lying together was one not of condemnation but of apparently indifferent acceptance – and it makes sense, he supposes, that when being away from loved ones and often any female company at all for months on end is an occupational hazard, men should sometimes turn to each other. Even Tréville, while always very firmly not wanting to know, has never expressed any of the sort of disapproval commonplace outside of soldiering; and d’Artagnan has always assumed Athos must feel no differently about what other men do behind closed doors.

But now, with this mission, it’s suddenly no longer about other men. This is about walking among these men, and pretending to be one of them – and not just men who turn to their own sex out of necessity, d’Artagnan reminds himself, but men who reject women entirely and idolise the boy-love of the ancient world. Perhaps for Athos, this is simply too much. He was married, d’Artagnan reminds himself, and a noble before he was ever a soldier.

Either way, there’s no use dwelling, d’Artagnan tells himself firmly for probably the tenth time as he dresses and heads downstairs to break his fast, sitting silently next to Athos at the table the four of them habitually share and letting Aramis and Porthos carry the conversation alone. This is just another mission, and they’re doing their job, nothing more.

Of course, d’Artagnan’s brief moment of equilibrium is completely dashed once he and Athos arrive at the tailor, where d’Artagnan is forced to stand around in nothing but his braies for what feels like forever as he’s measured up by the tailor’s assistant, while Athos goes into what d’Artagnan is sure Aramis would describe as ‘full Comte mode’ with the tailor himself, discussing colours and cuts and fabrics and never once asking d’Artagnan if he has any thoughts of his own. Athos is dressing him like a man of means might dress a kept boy, d’Artagnan thinks before he can stop himself – and that strange feeling in his stomach is back in full force.

On the way to the tailor’s Athos had at least responded to d’Artagnan’s stilted attempts at conversation, but as they return to the garrison d’Artagnan’s head is still buzzing from the events of the morning, filled with questions he has no intention of asking.

When he finally thinks of something halfway acceptable, he seizes on it.

“So are we definitely – on, for this week?”

Athos nods, though his eyes are flicking up and down the street as if he’s fearful of being overheard. “I’ve secured a sponsor. I only await a formal invitation.”

Then he actually looks at d’Artagnan for the first time in days, his eyes wide with something earnest that makes d’Artagnan’s breath catch in his throat as he insists, “You don’t have to do this, you know. You have your commission, you don’t need to prove yourself.”

“It’s not _about_ proving myself,” d’Artagnan hisses. Athos’ obstinacy is rapidly starting to wear on him. “We need to know what happens in there.”

“And you don’t need to be the one to find out!”

Athos’ anger is fleeting, and quickly-concealed, but unmistakeable; and d’Artagnan flashes first cold then hot before demanding, “And _why_ exactly are you so determined it shouldn’t be me?”

“Because _you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!_ ”

D’Artagnan suddenly becomes aware that they’ve both stopped.

He sets his jaw and keeps walking, and doesn’t look over when Athos’ footsteps draw level with him.

“Look.” Athos rests a hand on his arm, not quite an apology. “I’m responsible for this mission. For you, and whatever happens. And there’s nothing I like less than deliberately leading one of my men into an unknown situation. It’s not that I doubt you. But… there are things it would be unseemly for me to ask of you – of any Musketeer – and I want to be sure you understand that I would never ask you to dishonour yourself for the sake of a mission.”

D’Artagnan can’t figure out whether he wants to roll his eyes or to laugh – does Athos _really_ think him so naïve that he’d let himself be buggered for the sake of a few satirical cartoons? – when it finally hits him.

Athos has no idea how d’Artagnan feels about any of this; and if all goes well, then in a few days’ time he’s going to be sitting in a room full of gentlemen, pretending to be Athos’ _boy_. His beloved, his catamite, he thinks is the word Aramis used. Younger, and of inferior status, not fully a man in society’s eyes.

No wonder Athos thinks it dishonourable.

“Athos, it’s just a mission,” d’Artagnan insists, ignoring the strange feeling that’s back in his stomach as if it had never left, “and we’re doing our duty. We can always leave, you said so yourself.”

And thought it makes his hard thump hard in his chest, he forces himself to give voice to his fears: “The only thing that would concern me would be if my honour were diminished in your eyes.”

And Athos’ eyes seem to bore holes right through to d’Artagnan’s soul as he replies, “I do not think that possible.”

With that Athos abruptly starts walking again, d’Artagnan following half a step behind so that Athos can’t see the smile creeping over his face.

It’ll be alright. _They’ll_ be alright, Athos has said as much; and the strange excitement in his breast lingers for the rest of the day and the day after that, until Athos’ invitation is procured, his new clothes are delivered from the tailor and it’s time to dress for the evening, feeling his fingers stumbling over the fastenings of the clothes Athos has chosen for him, which mostly seem to be composed of endless tiny buttons.

Just as d’Artagnan’s toilet is complete, his hair freshly-brushed and every tiny button buttoned, there comes a knock on his door; and as he opens it to let his friends inside, the sight is enough to stop him in his tracks.

D’Artagnan has always known Athos as a soldier, even when he stands in his regimental best before the King; but the man who stands before d’Artagnan now is unmistakeably a noble, resplendent in a doublet of navy brocade with a delicate lace collar, matching breeches, stockings and heeled slippers – and d’Artagnan probably shouldn’t be looking him up and down, but he’s so astonished he can’t help himself.

When he finally recovers his wits and stands back to let Athos past, he catches the scent of the same hair oils that Athos gave d’Artagnan for his own use.

When Aramis gives him a knowing look, d’Artagnan rolls his eyes in an attempt to hide his discomfort.

“Good. You’re dressed,” Athos comments, taking up his habitual position leaning against the wall, as Aramis sits on d’Artagnan’s bed, Porthos taking the chair. “We have a carriage to take us there. Porthos and Aramis will be our drivers, and will wait outside.” He raises the cup of wine he’s holding to his lips and takes a long drink, while d’Artagnan tries not to fiddle with his unfamiliar clothing.

“I gather Aramis has taught you what you’ll need to know – but what’s more important than knowing the right things is knowing how to behave when you don’t know. Remember, you see me as your teacher and your… guide. If you don’t understand something, look to me and I’ll handle it.” Athos pauses, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “And… if something happens that you’re not comfortable with, just tell me and we’ll leave. If we have to get our information a different way then we will.”

He’s starting to get that tight, awkward look in his face again, and so d’Artagnan offers, “And failing that, I’ve got a dagger in my sleeve.”

He expects a smile, but instead Athos’ expression darkens. “And make sure you don’t fly off the handle either, whatever’s said to you. These men will not see you as their equal. Expect to be treated accordingly.”

“I wouldn’t –” d’Artagnan begins to protest hotly before he can help it, clamping his mouth shut a moment later as he realises the irony of the situation.

This time, Athos’ lips twitch unmistakably. “Quite so. Now, if you’re ready…?”

 _As I’ll ever be,_ d’Artagnan thinks, ignoring the way the strange feeling in his stomach only grows as he stands up even straighter beneath Athos’ assessing gaze.

“Then I believe your carriage is waiting, gentlemen,” Porthos quips, gesturing towards the door; and d’Artagnan notices for the first time that they’re out of uniform too, in plain-looking doublets and breeches that pass for servants’ dress, easily overshadowed by Athos’ finery.

Swallowing nervously, he follows them out, all too aware of Athos’ presence at his back.

It’s not until the two of them are secluded within the privacy of the carriage as it rolls along the Paris streets, sitting facing each other, their knees occasionally bumping, that Athos leans forwards with his hands clasped in his lap and says, low and urgent, “D’Artagnan. I want you to remember that I’ll be playing a role tonight. We both will. And if things go too far then _no matter what I say at the time_ , know that I truly won’t think any less of you for it. Understood?”

“I… think so?” d’Artagnan replies, though he’s hazy on exactly what Athos is getting at. He supposes he must mean that Athos-the-character wouldn’t want to lose face in front of his new friends if his boy didn’t cooperate.

Perhaps they’ll be expected to embrace each other. Letting Athos take him in his arms doesn’t exactly seem like a hardship – though it’s just part of his duty, d’Artagnan reminds himself, and any personal feelings there might be wouldn’t even enter into it.

Ultimately, even when he’s playing a character, Athos is still the man he knows and trusts; and d’Artagnan trusts Athos not to lead him into anything he would consider dishonourable, and certainly not after he’s given d’Artagnan what feels like an endless succession of warnings.

“Yeah,” he says, this time decided. “Understood.”

Which is just as well, as the carriage then pulls to a halt – and lifting the curtain aside with one hand, d’Artagnan sees they’re in front of the gate leading to the Duke of Aumale’s house, where candlelight is filtering through the heavy drapes at the windows.

The carriage doors open to reveal Aramis, silently holding out a hand to assist Athos as he dismounts from the carriage, like a true footman would. Then d’Artagnan gets up himself – but he’s surprised when Athos turns and offers his own arm to him for the dismount, as he imagines he would to a lady.

Well, he supposes as Athos’ _boy_ , he is expected to take that position in the relationship.

He sees Aramis give them both a ridiculously shallow bow, eyes twinkling, as Athos says for the benefit of any onlookers, “Wait here for us,” before reaching up to tuck a stray lock of d’Artagnan’s hair behind his ear in a gesture that’s startlingly intimate, murmuring in amusement, “Try not to look so surprised. Remember, you’re used to my attentions.”

“I’ll try,” d’Artagnan mumbles, suddenly thrown by the fondness and affection in Athos’ face, that’s clearer than it’s ever been. Athos is acting now, he knows that, has been ever since he stepped out of the carriage – but he can’t help himself if it feels _real_.

Even though he knows Athos holds him in a great deal of esteem – he’s had the proof of it by now, from Athos’ rare words of praise to the mere fact he accepted d’Artagnan’s place beside him to begin with – d’Artagnan can still count on one hand the amount of times Athos has looked at him the way he is now.

Even though Athos may be acting, d’Artagnan can’t help believing that it’s underpinned by the truth; and whatever follows, he knows he will always keep this look, this moment, close to his heart.

“Good,” Athos says as his gloved hand briefly presses d’Artagnan’s own where it still rests in the crook of his elbow, his smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Let’s go inside.”

Athos walks d’Artagnan through the open gate and up to the door, rapping the door knocker smartly with his other hand – and doesn’t seem at all surprised when the door’s opened within seconds by one of the Duke’s footmen, who bows smartly before saying, “Good evening, gentlemen,” with an air of expectance that gives nothing away.

“The Comte de la Fère and Charles d’Artagnan,” Athos says smoothly, removing a sealed letter from his breast pocket and handing it over, before removing his gloves and holding them out too, d’Artagnan following his lead. “I believe His Grace is expecting us.”

The footman cracks open the seal on the letter and gives its contents a cursory scan, before resting their gloves on a side table and inclining his head. “This way please, My Lord, monsieur.”

The Duke’s town house may not be the Louvre, but for a second residence it’s still impressive; and Athos and d’Artagnan follow the Duke’s footman through a spacious hallway, their heels clicking on the stone floor, and walk through the door he opens for them into what must be the drawing room.

“Monsieur le Comte de La Fère and Monsieur d’Artagnan, Your Grace,” the footman announces, before bowing once more and removing himself from the room, and closing the door behind him.

And it’s a fine enough room; but what immediately draws d’Artagnan’s attention and holds it are the occupants. Glancing around he counts twelve men, arranged in pairs on a variety of chairs and chaises longues – some with their arms around each other, with a depth of intimacy d’Artagnan finds a little embarrassing to observe – all clustered round a spacious four-poster bed that gives the room more of an appearance of a private chamber than anywhere where one might receive guests.

And there are two men lounging upon the bed in what appear to be dressing gowns, whom d’Artagnan can only assume are the Duke and his – well. ‘Boy’ is hardly the right word, when the gentleman in question looks older even than him.

He can feel everyone’s eyes on them as they approach the bed, and follows Athos into a sweeping bow.

“Your Grace,” Athos says, “monsieur, it is an honour.”

“Likewise, La Fère,” the Duke replies, with a wave of the hand that d’Artagnan has already decided seems to be a native language to the aristocracy. “Though I should inform you that we make it a rule never to use our public names among friends. Within these walls you may know me as Jupiter, and this –” he gestures to the man next to him on the bed – “is my companion Ganymede, who is the closest we come to a _salonnière_.”

The allusions aren’t lost on d’Artagnan, and as he rises from his second bow in as many minutes, he studies the face before him and can see that Ganymede is indeed strikingly handsome, and must have been even more so as a youth.

“Charmed,” Ganymede says generously, indicating a still-vacant chaise longue to his side of the bed. “Please, make yourselves comfortable, and we’ll make introductions.”

D’Artagnan obediently follows Athos over to the chaise – trying to ignore all the eyes he can feel following him, trying not to stare back – and stops when Athos sits, reclining in that careless way unique to the aristocracy, as he waves his hand in the direction of the window and drawls, “Some wine, I think, Charles?”

It takes d’Artagnan a moment before he realises that Athos is waving _at_ something, and turns to see a sideboard laid out with bottles of wine and fine glasses ready for use. He thinks quickly: as the boy he’s clearly expected to serve his master, there are no servants present; and a glance at the closest couple to them shows that they have a glass each, so he may serve himself as well.

The tablecloth is pristine white linen, and d’Artagnan’s a little proud of himself for managing to pour two generous glasses of wine without spilling a drop.

When he walks back over to Athos and perches down beside him, he’s immediately taken aback when Athos plucks the glass of wine from his fingers and says gently, “Come a little closer, my dear. We are among friends here.”

D’Artagnan obediently shuffles a little closer, feeling Athos’ other hand reach out to clasp his knee and guide him gently but firmly into position, pressed up against his side.

“Please excuse my companion,” Athos says easily, turning to Jupiter and Ganymede, “he is not accustomed to gatherings such as these. I thought it high time he started to learn something of his heritage.”

“And I believe it is the first time we have met in such pleasant company,” Jupiter – the Duke – picks up, raising his eyebrows slightly as if to signify that the whole thing seems just a little irregular.

“Quite true, I’m afraid,” Athos admits, as if he’s confessing an indiscretion. “I – was married, unhappily, and then I swore off love entirely. It took meeting Charles to help me see the light,” at which the hand on d’Artagnan’s knee moves up to press his own hand, and he can’t help raising his head to look into Athos’ eyes once more, which are so full of fondness that d’Artagnan feels himself actually blushing, and ducks his head again just as quickly.

“I can see why,” Ganymede smiles, his tone full of indulgence, “he’s just delightful. But I forget my hosting duties – you both still need names.”

At Ganymede’s encouragement, introductions are made – d’Artagnan remembers Apollo and Hyacinth, Juventius, Marathus, recognising some of the names from Aramis’ lessons of legend and the poets’ beloveds. Their mark, already present towards the centre of the room with his hand clasped by an older man’s, is introduced as Antony.

Once the introductions are complete, Athos pauses for a moment before saying, “Then might I suggest we two be known as Nisus and Euryalus?”

If it’s a test, they seem to have passed; Jupiter looks extremely satisfied as he replies, “Yes, I believe that would suit the proceedings admirably.”

At that moment, another couple is shown into the room and introduced to Athos and d’Artagnan before greeting the older members of the salon and taking their seat; that pattern repeats itself several times, and as the chatter picks up between entrances, Athos leans over to murmur into d’Artagnan’s ear, “You’re doing just fine. Address me as Nisus, and don’t drink too much. Now look at me and smile.”

D’Artagnan wonders why until he realises the implication is that Athos was murmuring words of love into his ear. Fortunately the very idea is enough to fluster him exactly as much as he supposes any actual words of love would fluster Euryalus, were he real; and he doesn’t know if it’s the wine or the recurrence of that fond smile from Athos that’s making his head spin, but the combination is a bit too much for him to cope with, and he’s forced to look away.

He takes the opportunity to get a better look at the other occupants of the room, and notes that they’re all as finely-dressed as Athos and himself, and each pair is made up of a youth and an older man, d’Artagnan estimating that in his early twenties he’s actually a few years older than most of his fellow boys. It brings Aramis’ words about mentorship to mind; and while Athos has represented the two of them as a love companionship, d’Artagnan finds himself wondering how much that’s true for the other couples here, and if they will be expected to move on and find boys of their own eventually.

His train of thought’s broken by Ganymede striking a metal implement against his glass, the chimes from the crystal ringing through the room and cutting through the conversation, which falls immediately away.

“Welcome, friends,” he announces, his voice a light tenor that easily carries through the room, “and I’d like to extend our particular welcome to our newest members, Nisus and Euryalus.” D’Artagnan looks automatically at Athos, who calmly inclines his head in greeting. “I believe Ligurinus is due to start, with a recitation of the story of Narcissus.”

The youth who gets to his feet is positioned at the other side of the bed, and he’s tall and long-limbed, pale and scholarly; but he clearly has a beautiful speaking voice, d’Artagnan decides as the familiar sounds of Latin start to flow lyrically from his lips, though d’Artagnan only recognises the odd word.

“I’m translating for you,” Athos leans in to murmur, his hot breath caressing d’Artagnan’s ear. “You’ll have heard the story of the beautiful youth who, scorning all love, is condemned to fall in love with his own reflection. The moral of course being: know thyself, and love.”

 _Know thyself_ , d’Artagnan thinks, all too aware of the warmth of Athos’ body against his side, the proprietary hand still on his knee.

 _Know thyself, and love_.

In that moment he’s inexpressibly glad that he can focus on the cadence of Ligurinus’ voice as he recites the words by heart, and not dwell too closely on just how much being here like this with Athos feels new and strange, yes, but like something he hadn’t known he was missing.

It seems an age before a round of polite applause signals that the reading is over, and d’Artagnan joins in gladly, trying to keep his expression polite and interested even though he’s sure it’s obvious to everyone in the room that he hasn’t understood a word.

“And beautifully spoken, as usual,” Ganymede praises, “my compliments to you both” – and when d’Artagnan looks over in confusion, he sees Horace also inclining his head in acknowledgement.

If the man’s task is to be the boy’s mentor, then he supposes the boy’s success is as much a compliment to the man; and though he and Athos are hardly the same, he wonders if Athos has ever felt anything like that kind of pride when d’Artagnan has learned something from him.

It’s a heady thought, although that may just be the effects of the wine, which is a little stronger than he’s used to.

There are a few minutes’ pause in the proceedings, for the guests to refill their drinks and converse; and d’Artagnan’s sent to the sideboard to refill Athos’ glass, though he’s specifically instructed, not his own. That’s fine with him, he decides, he’s not sure he should drink any more anyway if he wants to keep his wits about him.

There are already a few boys clustered round the sideboard, and as d’Artagnan waits he allows his eyes to wander – and he can’t help the way they widen when he sees a man and a boy whose names he’s forgotten towards the back of the room, pressed together in a tight embrace, leaning in to kiss each other on the mouth in full view of everyone.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it soon enough,” an unfamiliar voice says in his ear – Hyacinth, d’Artagnan remembers, a pale youth with a shock of curly blond hair and penetrating blue eyes that remind d’Artagnan very much of Athos, but with something of Aramis’ easy charm in his expression.

D’Artagnan’s first instinct is to apologise, but the way Hyacinth’s looking at him, though amused, is at least warm as he continues, “I still remember my first salon. I wished for eyes in the back of my head so that I could see everything at once.”

D’Artagnan gives what he hopes is a polite smile. “I must confess I didn’t quite know what to expect when… Nisus brought me here.”

Hyacinth’s answering grin is sharp and wicked. “Don’t worry, the night is still young.” He presses a hand to d’Artagnan’s hip in surprising intimacy before picking up his full glass and taking it back to his companion, where d’Artagnan watches as he’s greeted not with a kiss but a tender caress to the jaw, preening beneath the warmth of his lover’s attention.

When Hyacinth looks straight back at d’Artagnan, he realises he’s staring and quickly turns to pour Athos’ drink, spilling a little on the tablecloth in his distraction and cursing under his breath.

Athos has seen the entire exchange, of course, but d’Artagnan decides he’d rather look flustered in front of him than in front of any one of these unnerving strangers, and so he sits down gratefully beside him.

Of course, his brief equilibrium’s completely destroyed when Athos wraps an arm round him and pulls him back a little to recline against his shoulder, his arm resting across d’Artagnan’s breastbone.

“Just relax,” he turns his head to say into d’Artagnan’s ear, “everyone’s becoming more openly affectionate.”

 _As if I hadn’t noticed_ , d’Artagnan thinks, as he feels what can only be Athos pressing a kiss to his hair and forces himself consciously to do as Athos says and relax in his arms, which are a great deal more comfortable than they probably have any right to be.

“Now, lovers and beloveds,” Ganymede announces, his voice cutting clearly through the chatter, “I believe we have Curio next, with a little composition of his own.”

The man who stands is the one sitting with Antony, and d’Artagnan’s attention focuses automatically on him, hoping whatever he says is at least in French so he can determine for himself if it’s related to their mission, if his hunch has paid off and they’re finally going to hear something which hints at political sedition.

Which means that he doesn’t miss a word when Curio clears his throat and begins:

_“Iuventius, I pray thee: o, be mine!_  
_Between thy hairless thighs are such delights_  
_As only serve to whet my appetites;_  
_I long to kneel before your holy shrine.”_

When d’Artagnan realises what’s being alluded to, he almost swallows his own tongue in shock.

He manages not to make a sound, but he can feel eyes on him, and so he tries valiantly to school his face into a more appropriate expression as the poet continues:

_“No grapes grown full and juicy on the vine_  
_Or Spanish orange heavy on the bough_  
_Could tempt me so my God to disavow_  
_As thine own nectar, heady as fine wine._  
_O walk with me beneath these starry skies,_  
_The skylark sleeps, the mouths of men are mute;_  
_I know a bower free from prying eyes,_  
_And in this shielded glade I pluck youth’s root._  
_Fear not, my love, just close those heavy eyes:_  
_And let me taste the sweets of thine own fruit.”_

Once the round of applause has subsided, Athos says in a voice rich with amusement, “You should see your face, my darling.”

His voice is pitched loud enough to be heard by the people closest around them; and d’Artagnan can’t help the way his face heats as he realises, though at least it’s to Athos that Ganymede remarks, “I must say that your boy has us utterly charmed.”

Between the lingering effects of the poem he’s just heard, the way he’s being talked about over his head and the way Athos is pushing his hand inside the neck of d’Artagnan’s shirt to caress the bare skin below his collarbone, d’Artagnan thinks he’s never felt more flustered as Athos replies, “I’m honoured. I was beginning to fear that perhaps I’d kept him all to myself for too long.”

“Believe me, I can understand the temptation,” Ganymede purrs, the appraising look in his eyes one that d’Artagnan’s not sure he’s ready for – and neither is Athos, if the way the pressure of his hand increases against d’Artagnan’s chest is any indication. “And I’m delighted that you’ve brought him here to walk among friends at last.”

But when Athos replies, there’s an edge to his tone that hadn’t been present before: “Only once he’s seen the path laid out before him.”

Ganymede’s eyes narrow, but he inclines his head in acquiescence as he replies, “Quite so” – and it’s a performance, d’Artagnan realises belatedly. The whole conversation has been played out for their audience, much as he’s heard many times at court, and while he can tell from the tension in Athos’ frame that he isn’t sure he likes what he’s heard, he still doesn’t know what any of it might mean.

Though it starts to become apparent pretty quickly when Ganymede sits up, clicking his fingers imperiously as he asks, “Could I have a volunteer, then? A standard-bearer, so to speak, to show our newest member the way?”

“I offer myself,” says a voice, coming clear as a bell a few seats to d’Artagnan’s left – it’s Hyacinth, standing up as his hands go to the buttons of his doublet.

D’Artagnan abruptly forgets how to breathe as it becomes clear what must be about to happen here, and forgetting himself for a moment, he whips his head round to stare at Athos.

“We walk among friends now, beloved,” Athos says, his tone gentle, as he raises d’Artagnan’s hand to his lips and kisses his palm, though d’Artagnan knows him well enough to tell from the tightness around his eyes that he’s having to work to keep himself under control. “It’s alright, you can look your fill.”

And in that moment d’Artagnan decides he’s so unspeakably glad for their deception – because it means he can do just that. He can turn back to look at Hyacinth, shirtless already with his hands working at the fastenings of his breeches, in open fascination, because that’s what’s expected of him – and he _has_ to see suddenly, has to _know_ , doesn’t think he could bear to look away.

As Hyacinth pushes his breeches down, Athos presses his lips to d’Artagnan’s hair just over his ear and whispers, “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. You have to watch, they’ll know if you don’t.”

And it’s true: d’Artagnan can feel Ganymede’s eyes upon them, though he thinks everyone else is looking at Hyacinth right now; and though he doesn’t dare to look back at Athos, doesn’t dare to let him see the open longing that d’Artagnan knows must be in his own face, he reaches up to press Athos’ hand where it rests over his own breastbone, trying to silently transmit, _it’s alright, I’m alright._

Hyacinth pushes his braies down to stand fully nude before the entire gathering, before walking his way over to Ganymede’s side of the bed, past Athos and d’Artagnan. A few hands come up to caress his slim hips as he passes, one even reaching out to fondle the curve of a buttock.

When he stops beside the bed, Ganymede rocks up onto his knees and pulls him in for a long, deep kiss before turning him in his arms so he’s facing out into the room, one hand pressed under his chin pulling it up and the other splayed on his hip, fingertips a scant inch from the base of his cock.

Ganymede’s eyes are fixed on Athos as he asks, “Lovely, isn’t he, Nisus?”

“Exquisite,” Athos replies, his voice hoarse with what sounds to d’Artagnan very much like honest desire, as his eyes flick over to Hyacinth’s companion, acknowledging him in his compliment. “I have seen a statue of David himself at the Louvre which was not his equal.”

Ganymede smiles at that, his expression sharp-edged. “I could not have said it better myself.”

D’Artagnan’s eye is then caught by little flutters of movement around the room – some of the couples are rearranging themselves, he realises, beloveds climbing onto their lovers’ laps or stretching out beside them on chaises longues, one even sitting on the floor between his lover’s legs, a hand coming to rest on his head as he presses his cheek against the man’s inner thigh – before he remembers he’s supposed to be looking at Hyacinth, whose own eyes are coolly scanning the room as Ganymede’s fingers stroke up and down his hip, stopping just short of his cock – which is starting to harden, d’Artagnan realises in faint shock, growing and flushing with blood before his eyes.

A hand reaches out to clasp d’Artagnan’s jaw – Athos, he realises, it’s only Athos, turning d’Artagnan’s head to face him, though Athos is the last person d’Artagnan wants to understand just how he’s feeling right now.

And as d’Artagnan reluctantly meets his gaze, he sees that Athos’ eyes are very careful as they ask, “Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, hmm? Shift yourself round to the side for me.”

D’Artagnan’s mind simply isn’t working any longer, and he lets Athos encourage him into position with his back at the head of the chaise longue and Athos beside him, removing his slippers from his feet and lifting d’Artagnan’s legs to lie across his lap. His back’s to the rest of the room now, which he’s a little grateful for, though he’s still within full view of the bed; and even worse, he’s at right angles to Athos, with one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other resting across his thighs, and Athos just has to tilt his head to see every expression that passes across d’Artagnan’s face.

Because Athos knows him, he knows that he wears his heart on his sleeve, and he will see the _want_ – yes, d’Artagnan thinks he can finally admit it to himself – that’s beginning to grow beneath the shock and the fear.

He doesn’t quite want to be Hyacinth, climbing up to kneel on that bed with Ganymede possessive at his back, his growing arousal on display to the rest of the room; but d’Artagnan knows in his bones that if Ganymede were Athos, he’d be up there without a second thought.

And he tells himself that it’s just part of his role that as Ganymede reaches down to fondle Hyacinth’s half-hard cock he finds himself grasping Athos’ hand in both of his where it’s resting against his thigh, gripping his fingers tightly.

A clasp of the hand between friends, after all, can be forgiven. It’s not something that crosses a line; and d’Artagnan’s watching one man touch another for the first time in his life all while having a deeply personal revelation, and the least he needs is the comfort of Athos’ hand in his, the arm round his shoulders and the warm bulk of his torso pressed up against d’Artagnan’s side.

“I won’t let them touch you,” Athos murmurs in his ear, an urgent promise – and that’s enough to make d’Artagnan’s stomach drop anew, the full realisation of what Ganymede was asking of Athos, what he wanted of _him;_ and he doesn’t dare speak or look at him, only squeezes Athos’ fingers all the harder as he watches the way Hyacinth arches his back beneath Ganymede’s touch, dropping his head back against his shoulder and baring his throat as he lets out a groan of pleasure.

It’s obscene, and yet it’s beautiful; and d’Artagnan may not want to be in Hyacinth’s position but he can’t deny that it’s desire he feels when he looks at him, that his cock’s swelling in his breeches as he watches, mesmerised, and how is he ever going to hide _this_ from Athos?

And when the hand that was grasping d’Artagnan’s shoulder reaches up, fingers trailing down the sensitive skin of his neck, d’Artagnan can’t help gasping with just how much he _wants_ – before freezing in horrified fear because _he’s given himself away._

He can feel Athos’ eyes on him, though he doesn’t dare look – and he’s not stupid, he must know exactly what that sound meant. That though d’Artagnan’s mortified he’s still stubbornly mostly-hard, his face heating rapidly even as his cock starts to pulse in his breeches. That their roles be damned, he _likes_ this.

When he feels Athos pull his hand away from d’Artagnan’s and reach up to turn his chin towards him, d’Artagnan almost considers resisting, were it not for the fact that to do so would blow their cover entirely.

He’s steeled himself to see he knows not what – but the expression on Athos’ face, though wide-eyed, is something soft and sympathetic that’s almost too much to look at, because d’Artagnan knows Athos is a very good actor and he doesn’t think he can bear to see this, not when it’s enough to make him believe it’s real.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs again, his understanding of d’Artagnan’s predicament plain on his face, “I didn’t mean –”

And d’Artagnan thinks _will you shut the fuck up_ and kisses him.

He has to know, he decides as his lips meet Athos’, and he hears a huff of surprise that’s for his ears only; he has to know because he’s in grave danger of starting to _believe_ , and this is surely the only way. And if he’s wrong then he’ll tell himself, he’ll tell them both he had to, to maintain their cover, but he hopes to God he’s right.

If he were wrong, surely Athos would stay still against his lips, perhaps push him gently away once a moment or two had gone by, smile at him kindly but firmly and remind him that there was something he was supposed to be watching.

If he were wrong, Athos wouldn’t be opening his mouth against him, deepening the kiss as his arms clutch tightly at d’Artagnan, turning him into his body, kissing him with an intensity that feels as real as anything d’Artagnan’s ever known.

Athos quickly takes the lead, his hand framing d’Artagnan’s jaw, guiding him as he licks into his mouth, caresses with his tongue. Like everything d’Artagnan knows of him, the kiss speaks of a deep passion tightly controlled, harnessed and focused, enough to make him light-headed beneath the force of it.

It’s not until a particularly loud groan breaks through his reverie that d’Artagnan remembers with a strange jolt where exactly it is they are.

Hyacinth. Ganymede. All those others, their eyes on him and Athos, witnessing their private moment.

But Athos doesn’t let him pull completely away, instead sliding his hand around the back of d’Artagnan’s head so that he can rest their foreheads together. “You continue to astonish me, beloved,” he breathes; and though it’s loud enough that d’Artagnan knows it’s for the benefit of their audience, the particular choice of words means he can’t help feeling that it’s meant for him too.

Athos’ eyes flick away, and then back.

“But I believe you should see this.”

Hyacinth is now lying back on the bed with his hips raised on a pillow, resting against Ganymede’s chest, his cock fully-hard and glistening at the tip as Ganymede pinches one of his nipples between thumb and finger; Jupiter lies between his spread legs, rubbing two oiled fingers back and forth along his cleft, clear for the whole room to see.

D’Artagnan is suddenly doubly glad Athos didn’t accept Ganymede’s invitation on his behalf.

Feeling particularly vulnerable – even though he’s hardly the person who’s most exposed here – d’Artagnan shifts a little closer to Athos and rests his head on his shoulder as he watches Jupiter’s first finger slowly start to push inside, strangely reassured when Athos’ hand comes up to hold his head in place, his other hand finding d’Artagnan’s on his thigh and entwining their fingers. Even just watching this is almost too much; but at least he and Athos are in this together, he decides as Jupiter does something that makes Hyacinth thrash and cry out in pleasure, though Ganymede holds him mercilessly down.

He’s just going to breathe, he decides. Let Athos hold him close and breathe him in, that scent that’s more like scented oils and less like sweat and leather than usual, but still more familiar and more comforting to him than he’d ever realised.

There are a lot of things he hadn’t realised before tonight, and for a moment he almost wants to laugh at the strangeness of the whole situation – Jupiter has three fingers in Hyacinth now, he’s moaning and writhing up there on the bed, and d’Artagnan is sitting in Athos’ lap, gripping tightly to his fingers and trying to ignore how insistently hard he is himself.

It’s Hyacinth that’s doing it, the way he’s spread out before him, shameless in his pleasure; it’s the sounds he’s making, little breathy gasps and longer, drawn-out moans when Jupiter does something particular with his fingers that d’Artagnan longs to ask Athos about later, though he’s not sure he dares.

It’s then that he realises there are moans coming from behind him as well – and he shakes Athos’ hand free from his head so that he can twist round and see the rest of the room, where it rapidly becomes clear to d’Artagnan that for everyone else here, this is about more than just watching.

He has trouble taking it all in, processing all that’s happening as a series of moments. Two naked boys, standing, caressing and embracing for the benefit of four or five others; Hyacinth’s companion with his breeches open, sliding his hand up and down his hard cock as he watches his lover on the bed; Curio the poet, seated with a head between his legs – not Antony’s head – bobbing back and forth.

It’s too much. Suddenly he doesn’t want to see any more; and so he turns back to Athos, burying his face in his neck for a moment and gasping for air as Athos’ arms wrap around him and hold him there for a few moments, before he ducks his own head and whispers, “We can still go. Just say the word.”

And d’Artagnan’s surprised to find that that makes him angry. That even though he supposes Athos is just trying to protect him, the result of it is that he’s taking no responsibility at all for what’s happening around them, and he’s making the decision d’Artagnan’s alone.

The chances of them getting through this evening without being expected to touch each other intimately are looking vanishingly small, and if d’Artagnan’s realised that then Athos surely must too; and while he still doesn’t dare ask if this is real, if Athos weren’t willing to go so far for the sake of their mission then he would have come up with an excuse by now to get them out of here, rather than looking at d’Artagnan with that pleading, urgent gaze as if he wants d’Artagnan to save them both and yet isn’t willing to do it himself.

D’Artagnan’s head snaps up when as if on cue, Ganymede remarks, “You should see to your boy, Nisus. If he becomes wound any tighter he’ll probably explode.”

Ganymede’s tone is pointed, his eyes narrowed at them even as beside him his lover has Hyacinth on hands and knees and is pushing inside him for the first time, filling him to the hilt; and d’Artagnan’s so _stupid_ not to have seen it before, isn’t he?

Ganymede doesn’t trust them.

He has myriad reasons not to, d’Artagnan supposes: though Athos and Jupiter know each other by reputation at least, and Athos probably knows a few of the other men in the room too, Jupiter already remarked that he’d never seen Athos ‘among friends’; and really the two of them have appeared from nowhere in less than a week. Besides, Athos’ noble name, though rarely used these days, is hardly a secret – any one of these men could have seen them both at the palace, in their Musketeer livery.

And as d’Artagnan looks back at Athos – wanting to say _did you know,_ but it’s Athos, of course he knew long before d’Artagnan did – he’s half-expecting an agreement, some sort of encouragement, or even a hand sliding up to rest high on his thigh; but Athos is silent, something wild in his eyes as he just looks at d’Artagnan as though trapped, and d’Artagnan knows with the instinct that makes him a good Musketeer that Athos, with whatever ridiculous noble instinct’s driving him, can’t bear to do this. That he won’t ask, won’t persuade or seduce, would rather blow their cover completely than dare to take that step.

And D’Artagnan knows what he has to do.

He reaches up and takes Athos’ face in his hands.

“It’s okay, darling,” he says, not caring if Ganymede hears them or doesn’t, leaning in to kiss him again, a soft press of lips. “I’m ready.”

And with that, he gets up off the chaise longue and stands in front of Athos, looking him straight in the eye as his hands go to the neck of his doublet.

He fumbles the buttons again, it’s true, but not enough that Athos has to help him – which is for the best, d’Artagnan decides, given the way he’s sitting with his hands flat against the seat of the chaise, seemingly rooted to the spot, the look on his face warring between fear and want; and d’Artagnan hopes he’s sufficiently positioned between Athos and Ganymede because Athos’ expression is far too open right now. He’s hard too, d’Artagnan notices, wonders for how long.

Moment by moment, breath by breath, he removes his doublet, his shirt, his breeches, his stockings, until finally he unlaces his braies and pushes them down to the floor, letting Athos see everything.

“I’m ready,” he repeats, though this time it’s little more than a whisper.

“Oh, what a delectable creature you are,” he hears Ganymede purr behind him, “Come, let me have a proper look at you.”

Raising his chin, d’Artagnan turns towards the bed, ignoring Athos’ warning, “Euryalus,” because though he may be Athos’ boy here he is a man really, and he knows he can handle this.

“Lovely,” Ganymede murmurs, looking d’Artagnan fully up and down – and d’Artagnan can’t help the way his cock jumps a little under such intense scrutiny, as Ganymede reaches out to clasp his chin. “And yet your lover has barely laid a finger on you tonight. That’s rather curious, don’t you think?”

Though d’Artagnan’s forced to meet Ganymede’s eyes by the hand holding him in place, he would have done so anyway as the reply he needs to give comes to him, with perfect clarity.

“He’s afraid,” he confesses, dropping his voice so Athos doesn’t hear. “When I came to him I had nothing. He’s done everything for me, and still he believes himself unworthy.”

And though they have never been lovers before tonight it’s still true, every word of it.

“Yes,” Ganymede murmurs, sympathetic for the first time, “I can see it. He’s watching us as if he expects me to take you from him and ravish you right here and now. As if he has at least one concealed dagger and he’s calculating how quickly he can draw it.” His lips curve again in amusement – and not only is he handsome but there’s something magnetic about him, d’Artagnan decides, something that draws the eye. “Tell me truly, would you like that?” His other hand reaches out to caress d’Artagnan’s hip, slipping round and back across his buttock, making him draw a sudden breath. “To share my bed, be on display for all those hungry eyes? _His_ eyes?”

Is it possible to simultaneously want a thing and not? To imagine the thrill of being so exposed, all those gazes on him and to know that only one of those mattered to him, to watch the man he wants watching him?

D’Artagnan knows he needs to answer yes or no, but both are true; and so he finds himself opening his mouth and closing it again.

But Ganymede’s face softens once more, as his hand moves from d’Artagnan’s jaw to thumb his lower lip, expression knowing. “That means yes, but not tonight,” he tells him gently, with a wink that’s so quick d’Artagnan almost thinks he’s imagined it, before dropping his hands. “Now go back to your lover before he skewers me for all the liberties I’ve taken.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan murmurs, a little surprised to find he means it.

Chin raised, he turns back to face Athos – noting the tension in every line of his body, which only seems to worsen as he looks again at d’Artagnan, naked and aroused – and d’Artagnan doesn’t hesitate, taking the few steps to bring him to Athos’ side once more before climbing forward and into his lap, straddling his thighs, Athos’ hands warm on his waist, steadying him.

“What did he say to you?” he demands.

“Nothing bad, I promise,” d’Artagnan replies, taking Athos’ face in his hands once more, his cock an insistent ache between his legs that longs for one thing only. “I’m ready,” he repeats, looking Athos straight in the eye and willing him to believe, to take what d’Artagnan’s now certain he wants. “Please.”

And when Athos still doesn’t dare move, when d’Artagnan realises that he must be even more unequivocal than that, he reaches for Athos’ right hand and kisses his palm before placing it over his hard cock, closing his hand until Athos’ fingers wrap around him of their own accord.

And finally, that’s permission enough: Athos’ other hand hauls him close and proceeds to kiss him thoroughly until he’s dizzy with it, drinking all the moans from his lips as he works him torturously slow, until d’Artagnan’s rocking into Athos’ hand with every stroke, fucking through his fist, not knowing what he wants but wanting more.

He doesn’t want Athos to take him, not here, like this, but he wants…

He wants to feel Athos against him, he decides, that’s a start at least; and he pulls away from Athos’ kiss and reaches out to start undoing his doublet.

And Athos just stares at him for a moment, before gathering up d’Artagnan’s hands, pressing them to his lips and kissing his fingers, wordless and overcome; but it’s not a no, d’Artagnan decides as he pulls gently away, getting up and holding out a hand.

Which after a moment of almost unbearable tension, Athos takes, allowing d’Artagnan to pull him to his feet.

After that, Athos’ hands are everywhere as d’Artagnan undresses him, mapping the muscles of his back and shoulders and the curve of his arse, the planes of his chest as d’Artagnan pushes the doublet from his shoulders, the taut muscles of his stomach before sweeping gentle fingers up his shaft just to make him gasp.

Athos has a soldier’s scars, d’Artagnan remembers belatedly as he breaks their kiss to pull Athos’ shirt over his head – but it’s not like Ganymede doesn’t know all too well who they are, most likely, and d’Artagnan’s more than aware that seeming to be sincere in their desire for each other is their best protection.

As he moves his hand to Athos’ breeches, his fingers brush the noticeable bulge there – enough to have Athos force back a groan, the fingers of his other hand digging into the hollows of d’Artagnan’s hipbones as he reaches forward to catch his wrist.

Leaning in, he whispers in d’Artagnan’s ear, “Are you sure?”

D’Artagnan simultaneously wants to laugh and to roll his eyes, though conscious of the roles they’re still somewhat playing, he restrains from either. _After all this_ , he thinks, instead making his expression one of as much wide-eyed helplessness as he can muster as he pulls away from Athos’ grasp and presses forward, palming him deliberately through his breeches.

“You’ll be the death of me, beloved,” Athos gasps, his eyes full of wonder.

“Only a little, I hope,” d’Artagnan quips, filled with satisfaction when he hears Ganymede chuckle behind them.

Athos loses an inch in height as he takes his slippers off, and now d’Artagnan’s looking down at him a little as he unbuttons Athos’ breeches and pushes them down, giving Athos a moment to step out of them and pull his stockings off before reaching for him again, bending his head to kiss him as he grasps him through his braies, the hard line of heat beneath the linen.

“I can’t resist you,” Athos confesses, his voice ragged, “I haven’t the strength.”

“Good thing you don’t need to then, isn’t it,” d’Artagnan murmurs, before moving to kiss Athos’ neck, marvelling at the shudder that runs through him as he seems to let go of the last of his restraint, hands wandering all over his body as d’Artagnan finally unlaces his braies and pushes them off and down, pulling him close and slotting their bodies together with a gasp as d’Artagnan’s cock slots into the hollow of Athos’ hipbone and his thigh pushes against Athos’ groin, so nearly undone by the sensation of Athos hard against him that it’s all he can do not to thrust.

“Turn around,” Athos growls, low in his ear, and d’Artagnan can feel his heart thumping suddenly hard in his chest as he realises what this might mean.

“I don’t want you to take me,” he whispers, protesting even as half of him wonders if it might not be best just to let him, the idea of being bent over the chaise and taking Athos inside him enough to make his stomach drop.

Athos catches d’Artagnan’s chin in his hand, looking him straight in the eye as he murmurs, “I won’t, I promise,” his other hand giving d’Artagnan’s cock a few strokes that are gentle, almost reverent, before he looks over his shoulder and addresses Ganymede: “Do you have some oil we could use?”

“I do, provided I can watch his pretty face while you fuck him,” Ganymede replies; and d’Artagnan’s face heats all over again at the amusement in his voice.

“Beloved?” Athos asks carefully; and d’Artagnan’s hit with a fresh surge of affection when he realises that Athos isn’t going to agree without d’Artagnan’s say-so (and he trusts Athos’ word, knows what this is, though he can’t remember the name for it that Aramis told him).

“Yes. Please,” he replies, reaching down to take Athos in hand for emphasis, just to enjoy the way it feels to touch him so intimately, the way that Athos’ eyes lose focus and his breath stutters.

“Then turn around and brace your forearms on the edge of the bed,” Athos instructs, punctuating his words with a kiss.

He trusts Athos, d’Artagnan reminds himself as he does just that, leaning over and resting his weight on the bed, tucking his head down as he feels the mattress shift to his right and the clink of someone removing a stopper from a glass bottle.

He jumps a little when Athos’ hand pushes between his thighs, feels him spreading oil up and back – and nobody has _ever_ touched him there, it’s _strange_ and surprisingly sensitive and makes him feel the most exposed he has all night, suddenly newly aware of the noises of pleasure in the rest of the room, the who knows how many eyes that must be on him; and he finds himself closing his eyes and waiting for this part to be over, for the moment when Athos will slot their bodies together and touch him at last, the way he longs for.

His eyes snap open when a hand covers his.

“Euryalus.” It’s Hyacinth, who’s lying on his belly at the foot of the bed, apparently sated; a glance to the side shows Jupiter and Ganymede embracing at the head, though d’Artagnan doesn’t dare look up any further than their entwined legs, doesn’t want to know if they’re touching each other, if they’re focused on each other or on him. “Take my hand.”

For a moment, d’Artagnan almost refuses – it feels incredibly weird, the idea of having Hyacinth’s hand in his while Athos fucks him – but finally, he thinks he gets it.

Hyacinth has been where he is, and he understands. He knows how lost d’Artagnan’s feeling, how overwhelmed, and he wants to help.

When he reaches out and takes the offered hand in his, Hyacinth scoots forward and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, fleeting light. “That’s it,” he says, voice warm with approval. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you there yet.”

Unsure what to say, d’Artagnan presses the back of Hyacinth’s hand to his lips in fervent gratitude before dropping his head and closing his eyes once more.

He can do this. Hyacinth’s here for him and so is Athos, his hand resting on d’Artagnan’s hips as he leans over him, presses a kiss to his shoulder blade as he murmurs, “Gorgeous,” guiding his erection between d’Artagnan’s arse cheeks until it’s nudging at his opening for a glorious, overwhelming moment before it passes, sliding slick until it’s nudging up behind his balls.

He seems to fit there, and d’Artagnan decides that later – much later – he’ll spare a thought for whether Athos would fit just as well inside him.

But for now, he squeezes Hyacinth’s hand all the tighter, pulls his thighs in tighter when Athos scrapes a hand down his belly and says raggedly, “Legs closer together, beloved,” and when d’Artagnan squeezes Athos lets out a ragged groan and commands, “Like that, darling, just like that. Again,” as he starts to rock back and forth.

And just as he’d hoped for, d’Artagnan’s world narrows down to just the sensations surrounding him: the pressure on his hand, his own dry-mouthed panting as he pushes back into Athos and Athos thrusts against him, the pressure of his hard cock against somewhere so intimate making d’Artagnan’s blood run hotter, squeezing his thigh muscles tight over and over to feel Athos against him, to make him shudder and moan.

And finally – finally – Athos reaches round to take him in hand again, and at the combined sensation of a hand on his cock and a cock rubbing along his entrance d’Artagnan knows he won’t last long, it feels like a small miracle he’s made it this far already. He drops his head and presses his cheek against Hyacinth’s hand as he concentrates on squeezing Athos’ cock between his cheeks, thinking _Athos, Athos, Athos_.

He fully expects to be the first one to come, so it surprises him when the hand on his cock falters (and he’ll admit to whining, to have had such a good thing and then to lose it), and he feels Athos’ hips stutter and thrust as a warm wetness hits behind his balls; and then he nearly twists Hyacinth’s wrist as Athos all but throws him to the side and growls, “Sit on the bed,” with no regard for the sheets, before he’s kissing him feverishly and the hand is back on his cock, firm and strong and _enough_ , finally enough, enough to have him clutch tightly to Athos’ back and moan his release against his lips as he comes all over his fist.

Athos steps forward, in between d’Artagnan’s parted legs, and pulls him close as his awareness of their surroundings suddenly returns: the remaining gasps and groans behind them, the other occupants of the bed, the fact that they’ve just fucked in full view of something like twenty men.

He buries his head against Athos’ shoulder, and is extremely glad once more that he can fall back on the part he’s playing – firmly in love with Athos, and like Hyacinth, seeing this as a valuable part of his cultural education – but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t first need a few moments here, drawing from the warmth and comfort of Athos’ arms, to be himself. To acknowledge the fact that he wants Athos, and that Athos, if he’s not mistaken, if the hardness between his legs and the hand on his own cock were any indication, wants him in turn.

He never would have guessed, or dared hope. He probably never would have known to hope, just gone through his life thinking of Athos as a friend and mentor, never imagining what was possible.

He pulls his head back from Athos’ shoulder and makes sure to look him straight in the eye for just a moment, his hand closing around Athos’ wrist, before kissing him quite deliberately on the mouth, hoping that everything he feels right now will speak for itself.

And while Athos’ expression seems just as hesitant now as it was before they came so far together – well, now d’Artagnan feels as though he knows exactly what to do.

He turns at the feeling of another hand on his shoulder.

“Come, our companions will be wanting some refreshments.” It’s Hyacinth, who neatly removes d’Artagnan’s hand from Athos’ waist as he slides off the bed at d’Artagnan’s side, using it to pull him with him and over to the sideboard – past one couple who are still fucking in one of the chairs, the sight of the boy being pushed up and down on his lover’s cock enough to make d’Artagnan avert his eyes, suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s still naked, and the slipperiness of the oil and of Athos’ seed still between his legs, the fact that he hasn’t yet washed – and a glance over at Hyacinth shows that there’s come drying on his belly too, though he appears to pay it no mind.

The goal is to fit in, d’Artagnan reminds himself, and doing as Hyacinth does can only help that; though if he’s honest, a part of him is starting to wish that he and Athos were here as themselves, as improbable as that would be. That Hyacinth’s friendship, and even Ganymede’s frank appreciation, were really his to lay claim to.

They return to the bed with three glasses of wine and two of the bunches of grapes that were laid out beside the glassware; and Hyacinth gets back up onto the foot of the bed, insinuating himself between Jupiter and Ganymede and handing them a glass of wine each, and one of the bunches of grapes as he snuggles down and lets himself be petted.

Athos is standing by the chaise longue, his braies back on as he picks his discarded shirt up from the floor; and d’Artagnan finds himself hovering awkwardly, once again conscious of his nudity, and not sure what’s expected of him any longer, to the point where it’s almost a relief when Ganymede clicks his fingers imperiously in his direction.

“There’s room for both of you up here,” he announces, looking pointedly at the space beside him.

Athos’ head has snapped up too, but d’Artagnan can’t read his expression; and so he decides that the best move is not to object, and sets Athos’ wine down on the floor and manoeuvres himself up onto the bed to sit beside Ganymede, just shy of touching.

Of course, the first thing Ganymede does is reach up to put an arm around his shoulders, tugging him down against him until d’Artagnan’s head rests against his shoulder, the silk of his dressing gown pleasant against his cheek. His other hand’s full of grapes, which he’s feeding one by one to Hyacinth as he lies on his back, Jupiter sponging his belly off with a cloth before lifting his nearest leg to clean him between them as well.

He then changes the cloth for another – giving it to a servant beside the bed, d’Artagnan notes with vague alarm, his servants must be loyal indeed – and passes it to Ganymede, who d’Artagnan thinks for a moment intends to touch him intimately with it before he calls out knowingly, “I expect you’d like to clean your beloved up yourself, Nisus?”

“Quite so,” Athos replies stiffly, appearing beside d’Artagnan at the edge of the bed and reaching out to take the cloth from Ganymede, stroking d’Artagnan’s hip briefly with his other hand before lifting d’Artagnan’s leg – and d’Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut, glad of Ganymede’s fingers stroking his hair so he doesn’t have to think about that part of him being exposed to Athos’ eyes, having him _look_ even worse somehow than being fucked, though Athos’ movements are slow and methodical and d’Artagnan dares to think, even caring.

In truth it isn’t long before Athos lowers d’Artagnan’s legs again, and opening his eyes, d’Artagnan sees him passing his cloth to the servant, who’s walked around to collect it; and then Ganymede says, “Come, bring your wine and sit by me. There’s room enough for you both. Sit up, Euryalus, give him some room.”

Athos can’t refuse, of course, though to d’Artagnan’s eyes he looks extremely uncomfortable; but he accepts Ganymede’s invitation courteously enough, and climbs up on the bed behind d’Artagnan to sit propped against the pillows at the headboard, tugging him back against his chest and wrapping an arm round him.

As soon as they’re lying together d’Artagnan feels the tension seep from Athos’ body, and relaxing with it himself, he allows himself to drift a little as Athos sips his wine and makes careful conversation with Ganymede, who holds the odd grape before d’Artagnan’s lips and lets him eat from his palm. He forgets his nakedness, and how many people may have watched him in the throes of passion; he forgets that this is an information-gathering exercise, and a failed one at that, they haven’t heard a single thing of use since they arrived – and though he knows he can trust Athos to have his wits about him and to be listening carefully to everything Ganymede says, if he’s honest he doesn’t expect to learn anything more. Antony’s presence here must be a coincidence, he decides, and anything he’s involved in unrelated; and perhaps it’s naïve but he feels that he’s come to know these men even after one short evening, and he can see all too clearly that all they desire is the space to be themselves, and to indulge their desires in safety.

And so he eats of the proverbial fruit and kisses Ganymede’s palm in gratitude for it, tightening his own arms around Athos’ torso where he’s pushed them beneath his chemise and allows himself to dream for a little while that these are their lives, that they will come to this house every week and indulge their passions together among, and perhaps even with, friends.

When a hand reaches out to cradle his jaw, a thumb stroking over his lips, d’Artagnan can tell it’s Ganymede’s by the way that Athos’ arms tighten around him, transparent in his unease.

“Time to get dressed, darling boy,” Ganymede murmurs, voice close to his ear. “I desire for you and Nisus to walk with me in the garden before you retire.”

D’Artagnan ignores his protesting limbs – and the small, pessimistic part of his brain that worries that if he gets out of Athos’ arms, he’ll never find his way back into them again – and gathers up his clothes from the floor, dressing as hurriedly as he can. Of course, there are far more buttons than he’s used to and Athos, already dressed, ends up stepping around him to silently help button his doublet, his hand lingering at d’Artagnan’s neck for just a moment once he’s arranged his collar, with a complicated sort of smile that seems more wistful than anything else.

D’Artagnan knows that expression: it means Athos is starting to let go of him.

And he realises that if he never mentions this again, then neither will Athos; and at the same time, that he couldn’t bear for that to happen.

But Ganymede is already waiting for them by the door, and so d’Artagnan takes the hand from his neck and presses it in his, not letting go as he walks unsteadily to the entrance, nodding with more than a little awkwardness at all his new acquaintances, few of them still dressed.

As they reach the door, Athos looks suddenly past d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan feels a tapping at his shoulder a second later – and turns to see Hyacinth, still quite bare, who rocks up on his tiptoes to press a kiss full to d’Artagnan’s lips.

“Until next time, I hope,” he says, eyes dancing. “For I have much to teach you, my dear.”

“I look forward to it,” d’Artagnan replies, trying to keep his smile firm, not quite having the heart to say that he doesn’t expect there will be a next time.

Even if he wanted to come here again, he is merely Athos’ guest. From all he’s seen the salon operates on strict rules, and he can’t imagine he could just show up at the front door alone and hope there to be a place for him here.

In the hallway, Ganymede’s footman (not the one d’Artagnan saw beside the bed, for which he’s incredibly thankful) gives them all heavy cloaks and their gloves to put back on, after which he leads them along a long corridor and out of a back door into a quiet, shaded garden that’s bigger than d’Artagnan was expecting for a town house in the middle of the city. It’s fully night now and the air is chilly, the noise of the streets distant, and he wonders just how much time has passed.

“Walk with me,” Ganymede commands, stepping forward between them and taking both their arms in his, so they’re forced to walk three abreast along the garden pathway, which is slightly too narrow for the purpose (and d’Artagnan wonders if his right slipper will survive the experience).

He’s almost relaxed again when Ganymede says perfectly conversationally, “I know who you are.”

D’Artagnan knows he’s giving himself away, but he stiffens before he can stop it. He hopes Athos at least has better control of himself, but there’s a notable pause before his comrade replies, “Of course. We gave our names.”

“Then perhaps it is more to the point to say: I know what you _do_.” D’Artagnan nearly stumbles in fear as Ganymede continues, in the same pleasant tone, “Jupiter and I were… concerned at first, but following your conduct this evening I believe it’s clear to all who were present that you are, indeed, _friends_.”

Even to d’Artagnan, the threat is clear.

“We were… concerned ourselves,” Athos replies delicately, “on a matter pertaining to one of your guests. Over the course of the evening it became clear that said matter bears no links to this household, nor anything we have seen or heard.”

Which covers a multitude of sins, really.

“I’m glad to hear it.” They have taken almost a full turn round the garden, and are only a few steps from the door when Ganymede stops and releases them. “Professionally speaking, I think it a very naïve approach. But perhaps you were simply searching for a pretext, and I find I am sympathetic.” He reaches inside his cloak, and produces from the pocket of his dressing gown two small gilt-edged calling cards, handing one to Athos and one to d’Artagnan. “For you both. I hope you will choose to make use of them.”

He only has to step up to the door for it to be opened again by his footman, and d’Artagnan palms his card into the pocket of his breeches as they follow Ganymede back down the corridor.

He sneaks a look at Athos, but his expression is unreadable in the low light.

At the door to what d’Artagnan supposes he’d call the salon room, Ganymede turns. “And now I bid you good evening.” He shakes Athos’ hand, and then steps forward to take d’Artagnan’s face in his hands and kisses him on the lips, lingering for just long enough for d’Artagnan to get a sense of something warm and spicy, though he’s too shocked to kiss back or do much of anything when he can practically feel the tension radiating from Athos beside him.

Ganymede pulls back a little, but his hands remain cupping d’Artagnan’s face as he says, with the same kindness as earlier, “I hope you will heed Hyacinth’s advice, my dear. While there’s little hope for your companion, we do have much to teach you.”

“I’ll think on it,” d’Artagnan replies honestly. He’ll have to talk to Athos – if there _is_ a him and Athos, though right now he can’t bear to think about the alternative – but if one thing’s clear to him, it’s that he doesn’t want their acquaintance to end here. He wants to get to know them, at least, and learn about their lives, even if he’s not sure the salon itself is quite for him.

Ganymede finally drops his hands. “And I could ask nothing more. Until next time.”

As the footman opens the front door for them, Athos steps out into the night leaving d’Artagnan a beat behind him, and doesn’t slow as they walk out of the gate and in silence to their carriage.

It’s still parked where they left it, but there’s no sign of either of their brothers – until Athos opens the door to find them both asleep inside, Aramis slumped against Porthos’ snoring bulk.

“Good evening,” Athos announces, in a voice slightly louder than necessary, though the fact that he seems to take no pleasure from the way they jolt awake is testament to the probable state of his thoughts. “You’ll be pleased to hear that our horse hasn’t been stolen while you were sleeping.”

“How was your evening at the salon?” Aramis asks, with a knowing look that d’Artagnan decides he doesn’t like at all.

“Tedious,” Athos replies shortly. “We learned nothing, and the poetry was terrible. One of you, stay here and follow our mark when he leaves.”

“Your turn to stay,” Porthos says, shoving at Aramis’ shoulder as he yawns. “I’ll drive.”

Athos stands back to let them both out of the carriage before getting in without so much as a look at d’Artagnan, who heaves himself in after him, and takes the seat opposite, not daring to look up just yet for fear of what he’ll see on Athos’ face, hoping he’ll speak first, though knowing that he won’t.

When the carriage finally starts to move after what feels like an age, and the familiar swaying and rattling begins, he can’t bear it any longer. “Athos –”

“The poetry _was_ terrible.”

D’Artagnan’s head snaps up. He’d expected anything from another apology to a command that they never speak of this to a grim silence, but _this_ throws him completely.

“What?”

Athos’ face softens almost imperceptibly in the near-darkness. “That much was true.”

Suddenly it’s easy for d’Artagnan to lean forward and kiss him again.

And after the evening they’ve already shared together, d’Artagnan would have thought he knew what it was to kiss Athos, but now he finds out he’s wrong. That even at what he thought to be his most passionate, Athos was holding back; and now that it’s just the two of them alone together he clutches d’Artagnan to him like a drowning man, his passion like a storm, until d’Artagnan’s lips are starting to tingle and he’s climbing into Athos’ lap even though it’s near-impossible to keep his position with the way the carriage is rumbling and jolting over the streets, until he’s half-hard again and starting to wonder exactly what kind of a lover Athos will be once they’re finally alone.

“I want you,” he says urgently, finding Athos’ hand and pressing it for emphasis. “This. Everything.”

“Everything?” Athos repeats, something odd in his tone – and d’Artagnan hadn’t meant _that_ , hadn’t even really thought about it yet, but now he _is_ and he can’t help the way his cock twitches at the thought, as he imagines that strange pressure he felt as Athos’ cock rubbed over his entrance and imagines it more, better, _fuller_.

“When I said I didn’t want you to take me, I meant… _then_ ,” he confesses, making himself keep Athos’ gaze. “Not for the first time, with people watching. But I, ah… that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be amenable,” he finishes awkwardly.

And Athos’ face is grave, but the way his hand coming up to caress d’Artagnan’s face is tender as he replies, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure… except, perhaps, to be taken by you.”

And when d’Artagnan just stares at him, stunned, Athos smiles as he leans in to kiss his open mouth, saying, “We don’t have to live by all the rules of the ancients, after all.”

“Would you – want to go back?” d’Artagnan asks, knowing that his hope must be plain on his face. “To the salon?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure.” Athos looks away for a moment, frowning slightly. “I’m not sure it’s entirely my idea of entertainment. Neither the poetry, nor… what follows it. However, if you particularly wish it then I’d be glad to return with you. But – I’m not sure I would wish to share you. Not like that.”

“I’m not sure I want that either,” d’Artagnan replies, ignoring for now the memory of Ganymede’s knowing tone when he said he would, eventually. “But let’s talk about it.”

“Yes. Let’s.”

At that moment the carriage stops suddenly, and d’Artagnan scrambles out of his compromising position in Athos’ lap and manages to hit his head on the wall of the carriage in his haste; and when Porthos gets out to open the door for them, watching the way he looks between them, Athos smiling and d’Artagnan rubbing his head, leaves d’Artagnan unable to suppress a smile of his own.

They walk up to their quarters, d’Artagnan trying not to think about what to expect; but he’s still surprised when they reach Athos’ rooms first and instead of disappearing inside, he lingers in the doorway, looking quickly left and right before reaching for d’Artagnan’s hand.

“Good night,” he says finally, amusement playing around his lips as he presses them against the back of d’Artagnan’s hand, never dropping his eyes, “lover.”

“Good night,” d’Artagnan echoes, before watching Athos disappear inside and forcing himself onwards to his own room, though from that moment until he’s in bed with the blankets pulled over him, the grin never leaves his face.

For all that the mission may have been a failure, he’s still inclined to call this evening a resounding success.

 

 


End file.
